


The Third Volume of Nice and Accurate Prophecies

by MostWeakHamlets



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Crowley Was Raphael Before He Fell (Good Omens), Crowley is a mess, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, author has made up her own mythology, aziraphale finds people reading erotic, aziraphale is a little selfish, they're both idiots, they've been in love for 6000 years and never knew
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-03 11:19:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19462900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MostWeakHamlets/pseuds/MostWeakHamlets
Summary: A third collection of prophecies by Agnes Nutter is given to Aziraphale. He totally intends on showing Crowley until the prophecies start predicting some interesting things about their relationship. Then, he thinks, maybe sharing it can wait.--Chapter 2:The blues and reds of the painting were gentle on the eyes. The delicate features--loose curls, soft jaws, pink lips, the pale skin with minor imperfections from old paint cracking--could put Aziraphale at ease. He usually adored seeing humans’ version of them. They were always so much more gentle than they really looked. It was flattering really.“Crowley?” A nervous smile. “You never did tell me what your name was before you fell.”A halo above Tobias could only be seen in front of Raphael’s wing. The thin line of gold stood out against the brown feather and scales. Scales that were almost snake-like.“I think I’d like to go,” Crowley said.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I might end up re-writing this chapter. Who knows. Enjoy <3

It was as normal of a day as days after the arma-didn’t went. That is, it had been pleasantly boring. 

After ensuring that their superiors would no longer bother them, Aziraphale and Crowley began to live the most uneventful lives that they possibly could. They spent their mornings and afternoons in Aziraphale’s bookshop doing absolutely nothing until they felt it was time for a meal. Perhaps one day the two of them would find something else to do, but for the time being, they were both happy doing absolutely nothing together. It was perfect. 

They had somehow grown closer after the ordeal with Adam and the horsemen. It didn’t seem possible after being friends for millenniums, but they had gone from being best friends to being completely inseparable. They never tired of each other’s company. If anything, they found it unbearable to _not_ be in each other’s company. Aziraphale felt a little ache when Crowley left every night. He’d be absolutely beaming when Crowley walked in the front door again. It always felt as though he was whole again. 

Disturbances in their routine, such as ones brought in by delivery men as this one was, weren’t necessarily unwelcome, but they were found to be a little bothersome and tried to be avoided them at all costs. 

Aziraphale was reshelving books that had been left lying around by customers who never bought anything (to Aziraphale’s pleasure mind you) when the disturbance came in. Crowley was nowhere to be seen and was probably deep into a nap as was a habit for him. There was the normal exchange of the package with the delivery man, and nothing else worth noting happened.

Aziraphale carefully opened the package, full of curiosity as soon as he saw Anathema’s name and address printed carefully at the right-hand corner.

It seemed there were still surprises for them. 

Parting the cardboard lid revealed a thick bundle of parchment. The cover page read: _The Third Volume of Nice and Accurate Prophecies_ and had a short letter from Anathema resting on top _._ Aziraphale wasn’t sure if it was cause for excitement or a long-suffering sigh. He and Crowley had hoped they could put all of the business relating to the apocalypse/anti-Christ/prophecies behind them for good. 

Aziraphale picked up the letter. 

_Crowley and Aziraphale,_

_This seems to concern you more than it concerns me._

_Do what you wish with it._

_Anathema_

Short and sweet and left a lot of questions unanswered. Where was the second part? And why did Crowley and Aziraphale need the third?

Aziraphale slowly pulled the first page away with the utmost care. The smell of the pages wafted up to Aziraphale’s nose as we turned through them. It was the delightful mix of dust and old, breaking-down paper that the angel had loved for as long as old books existed. 

His eyes fell on a prophecy for that day: _love as old as time is revealed today. Rejoice, angel._

What was that supposed to mean? 

Aziraphale shook his head and re-stacked the paper. He wouldn’t pay attention to the prophecies. He would keep them in his office and tell Crowley if he cared enough to peruse them (though he had made it clear multiple times that he didn’t read). But he would put it out of his mind. 

What he wanted to think about was the new cafe only a few blocks away. He was considering taking Crowley there that afternoon. It was his turn to choose where they went, and the cafe had looked so adorable when it opened the week before. And the owner was so nice! She had waved at him when he and Crowley passed by and peaked in. 

Crowly would probably enjoy coffee after being roused from wherever he was. 

Aziraphale circled around the shop until he found the bundle of black clothes basking in a window seat. As usual, Crowley was sound asleep, propped up against the wall and long legs bent to fit. Sunlight fell over him, catching lighter tones in his hair and exposing the subtle blonde streaks that Aziraphale secretly adored. The specks of dust in the air were illuminated like stars, falling oh so slowly and finding a place among the window cushion. Aziraphale’s attention went back to Crowley’s face. His skin was almost golden in the light. His eyelashes rested on his cheeks, his lips were parted. He looked absolutely at peace. 

If Aziraphale were connected to Heaven still, he would have thanked them for allowing Crowley to rest after the years of stress after Adam was born. Dodging the apocalypse had taken so much--emotionally and physically--out of the demon. Sleeping his days away in the sunlight was well-deserved. 

Aziraphale would have loved to let Crowley sleep for the rest of the day. But he was hungry. 

“Wake up, dear boy.” 

Aziraphale put his hand on Crowley’s shoulder. Crowley responded by turning away, curling closer to the window, and letting out a little groan.

“ _Nooo_.”

“Crowley, please.”

“Five more minutes.”

Aziraphale huffed. “Fine. But only five minutes.”

“Ten?”

“Five.”

Aziraphale would probably give him the ten minutes. 

He returned to the prophecies with the intent of finding a safe place for them. When he walked it back to his office, he stole another look of Crowley. His chest tightened but in a pleasant way. 

Before Aziraphale laid the bundle on a clear shelf, he couldn’t resist looking at it one more time. He returned to the prophecy.

_Love as old as time is revealed today. Rejoice, angel._

That couldn’t mean--

No. 

Aziraphale quickly closed the book and shoved it aside. He wouldn’t be looking at it anymore. 

He rushed out of the room, eager to put distance between him and the prophecies. He wanted _nothing_ to do with them. 

“Crowley, it’s been five minutes.”

“It hasn’t.”

Aziraphale sighed. “We should leave now so we have plenty of time for lunch. The cafe closes early today--it’s Sunday.”

Crowley opened his eyes and scowled. “Right. _The Holy day_.”

He swung his legs down and patted his jacket for his sunglasses. Aziraphale led him out of the shop, chatting almost nervously about lunch the entire way. 

Two hours later they were driving back to the bookshop in silence. They had grown too fond of another to force a conversation when they were comfortable with the quiet. 

Lunch had been delightful, and Aziraphale looked forward to closing the shop and spending the rest of the afternoon with Crowley and a bottle of wine. He had thought that life after Heaven would be boring, but truthfully he enjoyed the days of doing nothing. He finally didn’t worry about spending time with Crowley--there was no more sneaking around or making up excuses to the higher powers.

Aziraphale had avoided mentioning the prophecies. Crowley had looked so happy at the cafe, and Aziraphale really didn’t want to ruin it. It was just so sweet to see the demon carefree. Mentioning the new prophecies would only bring up the bad memories of the old prophecies and anxiety of a potential new Plan. Aziraphale wasn’t even sure what the rest of the prophecies were about. Maybe there wasn’t even another Plan. Maybe Agnes Nutter just wanted to give them a heads up on the weather and, well, love. It wouldn’t be fair to needlessly worry Crowley about the weather and… love. Not on such a perfect day. 

He’d bring it up later. He’d rehearse how it’d go. But then how would Aziraphale mention the prophecy he read earlier that day? As far as he was concerned, it hadn’t come true. There was a _small_ possibility he loved Crowley and there was no reason to rejoice. Crowley surely didn’t have those same feelings, Aziraphale had decided over lunch. Crowley would have said something by now. They had known each other for 6,000 years. 

Later. He’d bring it up later. When they could go through the papers together to ensure the world wouldn’t end again in the foreseeable future. 

Aziraphale was pulled from his thoughts when Crowley cleared his throat. 

“So, angel,” he began, pursing his lips awkwardly and refusing to look at Aziraphale (which would usually be great for Aziraphale since it meant Crowley was actually looking at the road). “What would you say your favorite books are?”

Aziraphale was delighted by the question and the distraction from the prophecies. “I don’t think I could say right now! Why do you ask?”

Crowley shrugged, still looking at the road. “I was just wondering. I thought about maybe reading a book… or two--you know, now that we have more free time--I thought that I would try… reading.”

Aziraphale’s eyes lit up. “But you don’t read!”

“I could change that.”

Aziraphale’s smile couldn’t have gotten wider. He thought about the evenings they could spend together with books, telling one another about the books they read that week, insisting the other read this or that book next. Aziraphale could tell Crowley all about the authors he had met through the 19th century. It would be Heav--perfect. 

“I was actually thinking,” Crowley continued, “since you love books so much maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if I gave them a try. I’d like to… learn more about what you’re interested in.”

Aziraphale couldn’t respond. His cheeks flushed. He looked out his window. Crowley was willing to read? _For him?_

_Love as old as time is revealed today. Rejoice, angel._

Oh dear God--or someone. Crowley _did_ love him.

* * *

That evening Aziraphale pulled dozens of books off his shelves and carried them upstairs to pile them up in front of Crowley, who looked mildly intimidated. 

“These, I believe, would better suit you. But _these_ are my absolute favorites. These are the ones that you have to read even if you don’t enjoy them too much. These--”

“Angel, angel. One at a time.”

Aziraphale nodded. His cheeks had been a bright red all night, but so had Crowley’s. He looked at his books. 

“Try this one.” He pulled out _Paradise Lost_ from the stacks _. “_ It’ll be familiar.”

“Humans writing about us,” Crowley mumbled. “Ought to be good.”

He leaned back in the couch, opening the cover and taking off his sunglasses. Aziraphale excitedly took a seat next to him, taking it all in. There was nothing more exciting than someone reading--especially someone who looked so right doing it. Aziraphale watched the yellow eyes move from left to right, top to bottom. Slender fingers gripped the corner of a page, ready to turn it over. 

“Are you going to watch me the entire time?” Crowley asked, looking up to smirk.

Aziraphale blushed even harder. “I’m just making sure you don’t need help.”

“I know how to read. I just choose not to.”

Aziraphale nodded and picked up a book of his own. 

He found it terribly difficult to concentrate. He was so overwhelmed by Crowley simply sitting next to him. His mind kept wandering to the prophecy. What a wonderful prophecy. 

After a few minutes of staring blankly at a page, he saw Crowley’s hand inch over, closing the already small gap between them. It moved closer and closer until Aziraphale felt compelled to lay his hand next to it. Crowley laid a finger over Aziraphale’s. Then another. Then another. 

Aziraphale, feeling his entire body erupt in euphoria, took Crowley’s entire hand in his. 

It felt so _right._ As if they were made for one another. 

Their fingers laced together. Crowley stroked Aziraphale’s hand with his thumb, slowly, in a way that made Aziraphale’s heart race and body tingle. His head swam. He had never experienced something so intimate. In over 6,000 years he never once felt so close to anyone. He had never shared something like this. 

“I think we have something to talk about tonight,” Crowley mumbled.

Aziraphale smiled. “Whenever you’re ready, my dear.” 

_Rejoice, angel._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know anything about Christianity. Bare with me and just assume everything I write is valid. If the pope can abolish all afterlifes than I can make angels do what I want for a fic.

In Aziraphale’s defense, he was intending showing Crowley the new prophecies at some point. He just didn’t know when that point would be. He justified his secrecy with concern--he didn’t want his dear demon to worry about what the prophecies said about Adam’s future. Not yet. It was still too soon. 

The night the first prophecy came true--perhaps the best night of Aziraphale’s existence--he read every page once he was alone. And took diligent notes. For Adam and humanity’s sake. As the prophecies went on, they morphed into important information about the boy. Aziraphale would decode them eventually, but why not take it a day at a time? See if he could decode the earlier ones that mentioned a demon and an angel before moving on to anything more extreme. 

It was going well in the beginning. Crowley was none the wiser that the book existed. Any weird behavior from Aziraphale was met by furrowed eyebrows, a shrug of the shoulders, and “you’ve always been weird, angel.” 

Aziraphale felt one step ahead of fate for a few months. He knew Crowley was going to kiss him in the rose garden of Regent’s Park one afternoon that was so beautiful they couldn’t be bothered to stay inside. Of course, Aziraphale had pushed Regent’s Park that day as he knew something would happen in the “royal grounds of sport, roses, and animal internment.” Not a big fan of zoos, Agnes seemed. Neither was Crowley when he noticed the snakes behind glass. 

“This is inhumane,” he had said. 

Before any suspicious glass-disappearing miracles happened, Aziraphale suggested they leave the reptile house in favor of going back into the park to stroll through the roses. There, Crowley regarded every rose with a critical eye that Aziraphale managed to wipe away with a few smiles and by looping his arm through Crowley’s. 

“Aren’t they beautiful?” he said, putting his hand on the small of Crowley’s back. 

Crowley turned to him, bottom lip between his teeth. It only took a few seconds before they leaned in for an awkward kiss. Crowley’s cheeks matched the red roses for the rest of the day. 

There weren’t that many prophecies, Aziraphale thought. There wasn’t much reason to be concerned about Crowley missing a few. He would say something before an important one came up. 

That was at least his plan until he never worked up the courage before the date of the one prophecy that caused him concern. It was one word:  _ “Raphael.” _

The archangel wasn’t spoken of. The only records that were truly saved of their existence were for the humans. All Aziraphale was allowed to know of them was in the Bible. If there was ever any other information in heaven, it was kept to the higher-ups. It wasn’t that Aziraphale ever minded. It never seemed important to him. There were a lot of people and angels that only survived through humanity’s books. Humans had a tendency to stretch the truth when they were transcribing, so it wouldn’t surprise Aziraphale if Raphael was just an ordinary angel that was mistaken for an archangel. He truly hadn’t cared for 6,000 years. 

Aziraphale wanted to curse Agnes Nutter for not giving him more to work with, but that would be rude and difficult. He had come to be slightly fearful of unannounced appearances of archangels. They were reckless and dangerous and furious since the great plan was diverted. He imagined Raphael making his great return that day and causing bigger chaos than he and Crowley had faced in the past decade. What do you even do with an archangel that hadn’t been seen in thousands of years? Would it be like harboring a fugitive? There were really only two things that Aziraphale could imagine Raphael wanted at this point: safety or vengeance. 

He tried remaining optimistic. Agnes would have mentioned a conflict if it was as bad as Aziraphale had worked up in his head. And looking through the prophecies and his notes that morning, he couldn’t find anything that could point to the day being so tragic. 

He heard the door to the shop open with the soft tink of the bell. Bundling the papers back together, Aziraphale covered them with other, more boring papers just as Crowley walked into the back room. He wasn’t trying to  _ hide _ them. Just keep them safe. Old paper like that couldn’t lay out  _ exposed  _ like that. 

“Are you ready, angel?” Crowley asked. 

Aziraphale couldn’t help but smile at him despite his anxiety. 

“Yes. Of course, I am. I’ve been ready.” 

He stood and tugged on his waistcoat, straightening it even though it didn’t need straightening. 

“Are you alright?” Crowley asked, a small smirk tugging at his lips. 

“Yes! Why wouldn’t I be?” 

Crowley held out his hand for Aziraphale to take. 

“You know, I think you spend a little too much time back here sometimes.”

* * *

Visiting the National Gallery had been Crowley’s idea. He had been in the early 20th century. Not to appreciate the art but to find inspiration for any mischief--art theft was always fun to put in people’s minds. Now, he suspected it would be something Aziraphale would enjoy, and he certainly wouldn’t mind watching Aziraphale lose himself in the paintings. 

Crowley could appreciate fine art, but Aziraphale always looked entranced when he found a work he liked. He would smile gently, and his eyes lit up. It was as if the rest of the world disappeared. Crowley had teased him about it, and Aziraphale never had the nerve to tell him that that was how he gazed at the demon when he wasn’t looking. 

They casually strolled through the galleries, taking in each old painting that was young in comparison to them. Occasionally, they would recognize a work. 

“I met him once,” Crowley said as they read about Hans von Aachen. “Cheeky bastard.”

“I met  _ him,” _ Aziraphale said while they gazed at Monets. “Good fellow.”

It became almost a competition. They kept count of how many artists they had known-- 

“Hell has all the good ones now, angel.” 

And how many paintings they had witnessed in the making. They giggled over stories as other visitors stared and frowned at their behavior. 

They giggled until the paintings memorialized moments that they would have rather not remembered. 

Crowley squeezed Aziraphale’s shoulder and stepped out of the room. The crucifixions loomed over the angel, tearing up the memories of watching Christ being nailed down and hung up to tower over them all. Every spectator crowded at the bottom wore the same blank eyes and straight face. There was no crying or fear. The pale colors and vacant expressions didn’t do the misery of the event justice. He focused on the angels flying to Christ. If only Cione knew that they belonged in the audience, looking up in horror. 

Aziraphale could hear the screaming again. He could feel Crowley at his side, asking what had happened--what did Christ do? He could feel how upset Crowley was and how surprising that was. Aziraphale hadn’t expected a demon to be torn up about it. Demons weren’t supposed to care about Christ. It was strictly out of their area. But Crowley had always been different. He knew that true evil rested in humans. 

Aziraphale supposed it was time to find Crowley and leave. He had enough art for one day. 

Crowley was standing in front of three panels. Aziraphale recognized them all. They were how the humans envisioned Michael, the Virgin, and Raphael. 

Oh. 

So the painting was the prophecy. 

Crowley was tense. His arms were crossed at his chest. His shoulders were stiff and hunched forward. Aziraphale had never seen him look so small. He always looked much bigger than he truly was when he sat sprawled out or sashayed. But now his thin frame--almost painfully thin, Aziraphale noticed--was demanding the attention as if to cruelly point out that the demon had never been that big to begin with. 

His face was even harder for Aziraphale to look at. It was as though he was in pain, and Aziraphale was thankful that his eyes were still hidden. He could only imagine what was going on behind the sunglasses. 

“Dear?” 

It started to fall into place. The prophecy was  _ more  _ than the painting. 

The blues and reds of the painting were gentle on the eyes. The delicate features--loose curls, soft jaws, pink lips, the pale skin with minor imperfections from old paint cracking--could put Aziraphale at ease. He usually adored seeing humans’ version of them. They were always so much more gentle than they really looked. It was flattering really. 

Raphael held Tobias’s hand as he usually did when they were in paintings or statues. The tenderness between them was evident in their fingers just barely touching and the lazy gaze they shared. Raphael looked down at him, their red hair framing his blushing face. There was so much love in Raphael, Aziraphale could tell. A soft spot for the child and for the ill. 

Humans thought of the archangel fondly. How could they not with the way they were always so gentle with Tobias? Children were cherished by humans and anyone or anything that went out of their way to help one was immediately deemed as “good” by human standards. Aziraphale initially thought it was a flaw, but he understood, before the world-engulfing flood, when Crowley pointed out the cruelty of killing children. They were innocent. They didn’t deserve God’s wrath or to put in a tragic narrative. Crowley saw that before he did. 

Aziraphale closed his eyes and took a deep breath. 

“Crowley?” A nervous smile. “You never did tell me what your name was before you fell.”

A halo above Tobias could only be seen in front of Raphael’s wing. The thin line of gold stood out against the brown feather and scales. Scales that were almost snake-like. 

“I think I’d like to go,” Crowley said. 

Aziraphale nodded. “Of course.”

They spent the rest of the evening in silence in Aziraphale’s flat. Aziraphale, genuinely feeling horrid about the painting and prophecy but also itching to talk about it more, found a book to take his mind off of the whole business. He’d try to forget the rest of the prophecies. He’d put the papers away and never look at them again. It was violating at this point, though a little impressive. Agnes knew about the lost archangel long before actual angels did. But Aziraphale should have waited for Crowley to tell him at his own pace. That was always their trouble. Finding a good pace. 

Crowley sulked by a window, trying desperately to soak up the remaining sunlight but trudging away as the nightly chill soaked through the glass. 

“It’s always so bloody cold in London,” he had sneered, taking a place beside Aziraphale on the couch. 

Eager to comfort him, Aziraphale miracled an afghan to wrap around his shoulders. 

Aziraphale was hesitant to put an arm around him but he did. Crowley leaned into him. As usual, they fit together well as if they were made for another. Crowley rested his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder. 

“I hate the cold,” he mumbled. 

“I know, my dear. Stay here tonight.”

A few minutes passed. Aziraphale turned a page. Crowley seemed to be on the verge of sleep. 

The book was an awful distraction. Aziraphale couldn’t stop thinking about the way Crowley looked at the painting and the lasting effect it had. He had been quiet since they left the museum, only saying a few words to complain about the traffic or weather. He refused to take off his sunglasses even once they were safely away from humans. 

Now, Aziraphale put his books aside to gently yet awkwardly pulled off the sunglasses to find tired eyes looking up at him. 

“Dear? Can we talk about today? Before you fall asleep?” 

Crowley sighed and turned his head away. It tickled Aziraphale’s neck. 

“What do you want to talk about?”

“I think you might have something to tell me--that I’d like to know about that painting earlier.”

There was a pause for a few moments. 

“Just tell me what you were thinking when you looking at it,” Aziraphale said.

There was a longer pause. Crowley twisted the blanket in his hands. 

“A Biblical verse.”

“Which one?”

“‘I am Raphael, one of the seven holy angels, which present the prayers of the saints, and which go in and out before the glory of the Holy One.’”

Aziraphale nodded. “And it was because--”

“Yeah.”

“You’re Raphael.”

“I  _ was  _ Raphael.”

Crowley shifted and sat up. He curled his legs underneath him. 

Aziraphale smiled. He said in a whisper: “A cherub?”

“I  _ was a cherub _ and an archangel.”

“Why did you never tell me?” 

“You never asked, and I never expected it to matter.”

“But how powerful you must have been--”

“And how incredibly hard I fell.” Crowley glared, his voice beginning to take on venom. “And how incredibly painful it was. And all because I didn’t want to stand by and watch Her torture the creatures she made. She asked us to love them and then made us sit by and watch them become playthings for her games.”

Millennia's worth of grief was finally boiling over. Aziraphale no longer smiled. 

“I was only wondering--”

“Do you just want to know who I was so you can find  _ good _ in me?” Crowley snapped. 

“No!”

“Hanging around the former Raphael is easier to romanticize than hanging around a  _ principality _ like yourself?”

That hurt a little. Aziraphale tried getting a word in, but Crowley continued. 

“I was in and out of Heaven before you were even willed into existence by Her. I was there far longer than you got to stay before being assigned to the garden. And I’ve been fallen for  _ so much  _ longer. There’s nothing left in me that’s…  _ Raphael.  _ I made sure of that.”

“I understand, dear.”

Aziraphale was used to the little temper tantrums by now, but his chest still tightened in sympathy. Thankfully, the tantrums never lasted long. Crowley already looked to be tiring.

“I’m no longer an angel.”

“And I wouldn't have it any other way.”

Aziraphale took his chance as Crowley seemed to be calming down. He raised his hands to his demon’s cheeks. Crowley’s eyes were bright with anger. 

“You’re cold and tired. Let’s leave this be until you’re not so cranky.”

Crowley’s expression softened. He seemed to wilt. Aziraphale pulled him forward to rest his head against his chest, pulling the afghan close again. Things wouldn’t be so messy with Agnes, he thought. Aziraphale didn’t need a 300-year-old witch to make his love life chaotic. He was perfectly capable of doing that himself. 

“I’m sorry I brought it up. Who you were then isn’t important to who you are now. We don’t ever have to talk about it again.”

Crowley relaxed against him. “I’m not cranky,” he mumbled. 

Aziraphale closed his eyes. No more prophecies. Not when they led to this. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The verse Crowley quotes is Tobit 12:15. 
> 
> The paintings are: “The Crucifixion” by Jacopo di Cione from the 14th century and “The Archangel Raphael with Tobias” by Pietro Perugino from the late 15th century or early 16th century. Also, I don’t know anything about art.


End file.
